


i'll take you in pieces

by orphan_account



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-06
Updated: 2010-09-06
Packaged: 2017-10-11 12:39:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/112494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Been wanting to do this for years," Eames mumbles against Arthur's spit slick mouth when he manages to pull back to take a breath, sliding Arthur's jacket off his shoulders. Arthur makes an annoyed sound when it hits the ground, but he doesn't pull back to pick it off the floor.</p><p>"No offense," Arthur says, muffled into his mouth. "But no shit."</p>
            </blockquote>





	i'll take you in pieces

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from The XX's "Basic Space"

Eames finds him in a bar a few hours after the inception job. It's the kind of place Arthur would go, low, subtle lighting and attentive servers, a place where he can look like a rich man reluctant to go home to a wife, a girlfriend. There are quite a few of those in LA. It's lucky Eames knew which one to find him in.

"It's not nice to stalk people," Arthur says without looking at him. He signals the bartender and the man's there in seconds.

"Scotch, neat," Eames says, then "and another drink for my dazzling friend here."

"We're supposed to split up and lay low for awhile," Arthur says. "I know you're not good at following directions, but really."

"What a coincidence it is," Eames says, just this shade of too loud. "What a coincidence it is to see you here, gorgeous man from the plane."

Arthur's mouth twitches. "If I didn't know better," he says. "I'd think you weren't any good at your job."

"Only around you," Eames says, and sips at the drink that had quietly appeared. "Having a good day, dear Arthur?"

"I suppose it could have gone worse," Arthur says.

"My day is suddenly better," Eames says. "Sitting in a bar with a walking wet dream."

Arthur looks at him for a moment, quiet, calculating. "We're doing this now?" he asks, quiet. His voice is almost swallowed up in the low conversations around him, in the music that's trying its hardest to be unobtrusive.

"I don't see why not," Eames says. "I'm a little fed up on waiting on you, to tell you the truth."

Arthur's mouth twitches into a smile again. "I don't know what you're talking about, Mr. Eames," he says.

"Bullshit," Eames says, low, places a hand on the small of Arthur's back, fleeting, there and gone, before taking another sip of his drink.

"So we're doing this," Arthur says, and finishes his drink with a neat, long swallow, pulls the drink Eames ordered him forward.

"A little liquid courage?" Eames asks.

"It can't really hurt," Arthur says.

Eames puts his hand down, wrapping around Arthur's wrist, just tight enough to still its progress.

"I think you've had enough," he says.

Arthur pulls his hand away, a little rough, knocks back the drink in an undignified gulp, then gives Eames a smile, a little petulant, a little contrary.

"Finish your drink," Arthur says, and Eames does in a swallow that isn't much more dignified than what Arthur managed. He pays the bill with Arthur's eyes on him, three drinks for Arthur, one for him.

"Is that what you need?" Eames says when they get outside, the air stifling hot, Arthur walking beside him like he knows the end destination.

"It can't hurt," Arthur repeats.

"You need an excuse," Eames says, not quite managing an even tone. "In the morning, when you wonder why you did something human."

"I thought you were trying to sleep with me," Arthur says, level, matter-of-fact. "Not trying to insult me."

"It's more fun when it's both, don't you think?" Eames asks, and Arthur doesn't say anything, not until they're in Eames' hotel, watching the floors change in the elevator.

"Why now?" he asks, quiet.

"You have less to lose," Eames says.

Arthur hums something non-committal. "I don't even like you," he says.

"Ah," Eames says. "But you still desperately want in my pants."

Arthur doesn't deny it, and it's confirmed once they're out of the elevator, once they're inside his room, shadow dark. He presses Arthur up against the door and Arthur surrenders, slackens, his mouth hot and wet and searching.

"Been wanting to do this for years," Eames mumbles against Arthur's spit slick mouth when he manages to pull back to take a breath, sliding Arthur's jacket off his shoulders. Arthur makes an annoyed sound when it hits the ground, but he doesn't pull back to pick it off the floor.

"No offense," Arthur says, muffled into his mouth. "But no shit."

Eames snorts laughter, tries his best to walk backwards toward the bed while simultaneously tugging Arthur back with him and toeing off his shoes. He mostly succeeds, if a little sloppily, and they end up in a heap on the bed before Arthur shifts to straddle him, body a hard line against his own.

"What is it you want, exactly?" Arthur asks, pulling back, thighs tense against Eames' hips. He starts to unbutton his shirt, placing his cufflinks safe on the bedside table.

"Everything you can give me," Eames says. "And then a little bit more than that."

Arthur raises an eyebrow, looking unimpressed.

"And to fuck you," Eames says. "Mostly that."

Arthur's fingers still on the buttons of his shirt. "You have stuff?" he asks.

"Arthur, my dear boy," Eames says. "What on earth do you take me for?"

Arthur rolls his eyes, rolling off him to slide his shirt off, beginning to fold it, neat.

Eames sits up, presses his mouth against the curve where Arthur's neck meets his shoulder, scrapes his teeth against it, light. Arthur shivers against him, minute, then leans back, and Eames wraps an arm around the hard planes of his chest, bites down hard enough to leave a mark.

Arthur drops his shirt in a heap on the floor, and that's all Eames wants, really, Arthur pliant against him, all pale warm skin against his mouth.

Eames slides a hand down, Arthur hard against his fingers, distorting the line of his trousers into something obscene. Arthur makes a noise when Eames presses the heel of his hand against him, tips his head back against Eames shoulder as Eames slides the fly of his trousers down, tooth by tooth.

"You have no idea how long I've wanted to do this to you," Eames says into the shell of Arthur's ear, more breath than words. "How long I've wanted you spread out beneath me, fucking yourself on my fingers. How long I've wanted you begging me for it."

"No one's begging yet," Arthur says, but his voice is uneven as Eames slides his hand beneath his briefs, as he thumbs the head of Arthur's cock, pre-come wet against his thumb.

"You will," Eames says, and slides off the bed with more enthusiasm than grace, curls his fingers around his waistband and tugs his briefs and his trousers down, stymied when he sees Arthur's shoes are still on.

"Your shoes," Eames says, and Arthur laughs, high and nervous before starting to lean down.

"Let me," Eames says, and he undoes the laces slowly, slides them off his feet carefully before pulling his socks off, fingers brushing against his ankles. By the time Arthur's finally naked, he's breathing fast, uneven, his cock red and wet, his chest flushed.

"You're still dressed," Arthur says. Eames imagines that was meant to sound annoyed, but it just comes out breathless.

"I am," Eames says, and then leans down, tongue curling over the head of Arthur's cock, slow, locking Arthur's stuttered out breath into a vault of things he's going to jerk off to for the rest of his life, right along with the weight of Arthur on his tongue and the barely noticeable tremor of his thighs.

He gets almost lost in it, the taste of Arthur, the way his hips jerk, just barely, when Eames slides his mouth down, before he seems to catch himself, to still. Eames would like him to lose all that control, to shove his hands in Eames hair and shove his cock down his throat, but for now, he can handle the hitch of breath when Eames raises a hand, slowly pushing him onto his back, before crawling onto the bed.

"Get undressed, for god's sake," Arthur says, before Eames slides his fingers into Arthur's mouth. Arthur's eyes narrow, but he sucks on his fingers, scrapes his teeth against his knuckles.

"No," Eames says, more breathless than he'd like, then slides his mouth over Arthur's cock again as he pushes a finger against Arthur, spit slick, not nearly slick enough, slow and even. Arthur's tight, which isn't unexpected, but it feels like a blow to the chest, like he can't manage to get enough air to his lungs with his mouth hollowed around Arthur's cock, with his finger pushing into the tight heat of him.

"Fuck," Arthur says distantly, gone still against him, then he pushes back against the finger, tentative, before Eames is pushing the next finger inside, a little rough, not tentative at all, because his cock is pressed up against his zipper, the wrong side of painful, and he's fairly sure if he's not buried inside Arthur soon, he may well die.

"Jesus fuck," Arthur says, absolutely filthy sounding, as Eames twists his fingers inside Arthur, as he slides his mouth down, down. "Fucking—Eames."

It's not begging, but it's close enough, close enough when Eames can't manage to wait another second. When he pulls his fingers out Arthur hisses, and Eames' hands are shaking, a little, on the buttons of his shirt, clumsy and awkward, until Arthur sits up to help him get it off, his hands steady under pressure like the absolute still of his fingers on the trigger of a gun.

At some point they get distracted, Arthur's mouth landing on his, and it's hot and wet and not coordinated at all. He's rutting against Arthur and trying to get his pants off at the same time, and it's not working, but he can't bring himself to pull away, even for the second it takes to grab the condom.

"You should fuck me," Arthur mumbles into his mouth before punctuating it with a bite, painful and right.

Eames finally manages to pull back long enough to get his pants off, to grab a condom, grab lube. His hands are still shaking, so Arthur puts the condom on him, mouth pressed against his jaw, fingers slick with lube as he wraps his hand around Eames' cock, jerking him off in a long, slow slide.

"You need to stop," Eames manages. "Or I'm not going to be able to fuck you at all."

Arthur looks smug, but his cheeks are pink, and his hair's in disarray, and Eames has never seen him look so debauched, so he finds he can't take it personally.

He pushes Arthur back, gentle, until Arthur shifts onto his back, long and lean, wrapping a leg around Eames' waist as he lines himself up, as he pushes, slow, inside.

Arthur's as tight and hot around him, and he stills, head falling forward, hair brushing Arthur's chest as he forces himself to breathe, tries to tell himself, stern, that he is no longer fifteen, and Arthur will laugh at him forever if he comes the second he moves.

"Come _on_," Arthur says, and Eames moves, slow, in him, almost too much, almost completely overwhelmed with Arthur tight around him, with Arthur's body, lean and long and gorgeous, sprawled beneath him like he deserves it.

He manages to get a hand around Arthur, isn't entirely sure how, because it's taking almost everything in him to just move, to not press his mouth to Arthur's cheek and breathe for a moment. Arthur makes a noise, cut off, and Eames watches the line of his throat, watches him swallow, as Arthur tries to press back against his cock and into his hand, unable to do both, but still _trying_, the stubborn bastard.

"I've got you," Eames manages, low, into the sharpness of Arthur's jaw, and he doesn't know if that's true, but Arthur turns his head, and they're not kissing, not really, can't manage that, all teeth and tongue and shared breath, but it's close enough.

Arthur comes first, fisting a hand in Eames hair and muffling sound into his mouth, coming hot into his hand, and Eames can't manage to last much beyond that, Arthur going tight around him, teeth in Eames' lip. Eames can taste blood, and it's then he comes.

They share breath for a moment more, inhale, exhale, before Arthur shoves weakly at him. "Off," he mumbles, and Eames pulls out of him, slow, tugs off the condom and throws it in the vague direction of the trashcan before lying down beside him.

"Well that was a let-down," Arthur says after a minute, and lets out something suspiciously like a giggle when Eames pinches his side, too fucked out to think of any witty rejoinder.

They breathe, sharing space. "I should go," Arthur says finally.

"No," Eames says, stares at the ceiling, Arthur a warm presence beside him. "You really shouldn't."

Arthur's quiet. "Will you blow me in the shower tomorrow morning if I stay?" he asks after a minute.

"I could do that," Eames says, wrist brushing up against Arthur's, the sole contact between them.

Arthur hums. "I suppose I could stay," he says, but there's something guarded in his tone, like he's dressed again, even sprawled out naked beside him.

Eames shifts closer, rubs his fingers against the palm of Arthur's hand before loosely twisting them in Arthur's fingers. He squeezes. "Stay," he says, quiet.

"Yeah," Arthur says. "Yeah, okay."


End file.
